


Protege

by Ffwydriad



Series: Just The Same But, You Know, Completely Different [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Awesome Kate Bishop, Character Study, Childhood, Crime Fighting, Deaf Clint Barton, Drabble, First Meetings, Gen, Humor, Superheroes, Vigilantism, kate bishop is better than you and you know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:39:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6732787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ffwydriad/pseuds/Ffwydriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> "No one is like me on the bow." Clint tells the interviewer. "That's why I use it. Well, I guess Kate is a bit like me." </i>
</p><p><i>"Kate?" The interviewer asks. "Who's she? Someone </i>special<i> perhaps?"</i></p><p>
  <i>"Oh she's special alright." Clint laughs. "I suppose you could say she's my protege." </i>
</p><p>Or, the story of Katherine Bishop.</p><p>/Standalone, but part of the JtSbD AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protege

After her mom died, her father wanted her out of the house. She was nine years old at the time, and spent every moment she could in her room, sulking. He had wanted to fix that. To try and make her sociable again. To bribe her in to happiness.

  
He bribes her in to something. What, exaxtly, she isn't quite sure.

 

She takes lessons. She takes a lot of lessons. Music lessons and art lessons and dance lessons, but also fencing, and martial arts, and archery. Kate gives no flowery praise to her father, but at least he had the sense to know that music and art wouldn't keep her distracted.

  
At first, she's horrible. Not so much with the music, but with everything else she sucks. Her teachers are very polite, but under the mask of getting paid she can tell they are having trouble handling it, having trouble getting through to her. She copies their motions exactly, but it doesn't work quite right.

 

In the end it's an assistant teacher in the martial arts studio that shows her how to fix all of that.

 

"It's not about copying." He tells her, after once again she fails some routine position. "You have a talent, but you're using it wrong. Do not copy exactly what they are doing. Learn it. Understand it. Figure out how to apply it to yourself. You have a different height, weight, and structure. There will be differences."

 

"Okay." She says. The teacher is focusing on the other students, having left the assistant to deal with her, and she tries again. She doesn't copy the exact movement, but the idea. Her body flows with the rhythm and she moves in to the stances. If this were a movie, she would have done the blow and chopped the plank of wood in half. Instead, there is no applause.

 

"Continue." The assistant says, and while he's stern he sounds almost proud of her. "Even the gifted need practice."

 

"So you practice too?" She asks, repeating the form again, but not an exact. It isn't about copying, after all. There is a silence and he doesn't talk, and there is the sense that he is almost surprised such a question came from the eleven year old girl.

 

"Of course." He says finally. "But only when no one is watching." He whispers that as if it is a secret, and she has to stifle a laugh, once again moving in to a stance. The teacher walks over to a bag and starts to show her the basics of punching, something the other kids have mastered weeks ago. 

 

He leaves by the end of the month. She sees him only three times, never for very long, and then she never meets him again.

  
In the end, it was not an important meeting for either of them. But she began to apply that simple principle everywhere, and within the year all of her teachers were heralding her as one of the best students throughout all of her clubs. No longer does she slip in to the awkward steps that do not quite fit. Now, all of her planned actions fit her like a glove.

  
She tries to bring it up to her father.

 

He never does pay attention.

 

* * *

 

In 2012 she watches the news as her city is destroyed by monsters from the sky. Too many of the feeds cut out, cameras crashing to the ground and helicopters backing away from the scene of the fight. She doesn't have any friends, really, but she is worried none the less as the destruction reigns down over her home. She is almost thirteen, and she's worried, justly so.

 

In her dreams for months later, the city burns. 

 

* * *

 

She puts on a mask not too long after. She knows the world is embroiled in the fight, knows that even if the monsters are gone, her city needs protection. There aren't any Avengers - on the news, she watches as Stark destroys his suits, and the Avengers have not been seen since back then. 

 

She quits art and music lessons. Or more like, she she spends all her art and music lessons in a back room, sleeping, left uninterrupted by the fact her father is paying them more than enough money. She cites too many activities, too much homework, and the need for some time to sleep. In reality, it's because she is beginning some . . . alternate activities at night. 

 

It's incredibly lucky he doesn't give her a bodyguard. They are rich and famous, but not /that/ rich and famous. There is a benefit to becoming wealthy in the printing business - the most news her family ever got was when her mother died, and even then it was brief. If she was someone like, say, Stark's daughter, there would be constant protection.

 

Instead she is free to make her preparations. 

 

It's not a costume, really, but if you could call anything a costume, it would be that. She wears all black (Later, they will try to tie her to the Devil, memories blurred enough that gender is forgotten) and her costume is form fitting, except it doesn't fit her form, only what she is wearing underneath - padded protection which both armors her and changes her body shape. She isn't stupid. She braids her hair in to a crown, messily, so that it is out of the way, and places a cloth mask across her face, tied too tightly with string to keep it on stable enough. 

 

She slinks through the streets and rooftops, walking softly through the park and peering down in to dark alleyways. There are always crimes, here, late at night, she discovers. When people start to walk home. While her father's city slumbers.

 

In the end, maybe she knows that what she's doing isn't very much. She isn't fighting monsters, just muggers and attempted rapists. But she's thirteen, and she doesn't care, and it doesn't matter anyways. She wants to help, so she does.

 

* * *

 

It goes well, until it doesn't. 

 

She dances through her first step in to vigilantism, persisting on the mix of luck and skill with which she does everything. It's not hard, given the years she's spent in martial arts and dance, and her uncanny talent for picking up people's movements. 

 

Her failure is stupid, really. She takes out a mugger, and doesn't realize that he has back up, not until the guy has a gun to her neck and she is panicking, wondering if this is where she is going to die. Thirteen years old, wearing a repurposed masquerade mask, and the hands of some loser with a gun.

 

She doesn't notice the second man, the one who is sitting on the trees. Neither does the guy with the gun placed to her neck, not until there is an arrow sticking from his hand and she turns to stare at him. He looks like a normal person, the man with the bow, dressed in normal clothes.

 

Instead of sticking around, thanking the guy for saving her life, she bolts. He may look like just another person, but nobody hanging out in the middle of the night with a bow is up to anything good. She doesn't quite think he's a bad guy, but she is almost certain he's the kind of guy who would very much disapprove of a teenager running around beating up muggers, no matter how good she is at it.

 

She runs and hides in an alleyway, her heart racing, and she can tell there is more adrenaline in her system than is safe. She needs to calm down, to breathe out, which means she needs to get home and leave this to tomorrow. What's wrong with some extra sleep, after all? And the man with the bow is out here doing her job for her. Yeah, that's it. She can just go home.

 

"Boo!" Says the man with the bow as he stands next to her in the alley, and she punches him in the face. It's taken a bit of time to make it so that's her instinct, and the man doubles back, hand running to his face, holding his bruised cheek. "Damn! That was a really good punch! I'm glad you didn't hit my nose, you could have killed me!"

 

She stares at him. He isn't here to attack her, which is good, but he was following her, which is very much not good. There aren't that many options, but while he is still recoiled she dashes towards a fire escape and jumps up, grabbing on to the railing and pulling herself up. Adrenaline, at least you are good for one thing, even if that thing isn't fights, she thinks, climbing over the metal bars and scampering up the clanking stairs.

 

"I just wanted to return your bracelet!" The man shouts up, but she doesn't pause. Her hand does run to her wrist, finding that her bracelet - the bracelet her mother gave her - is indeed gone, but that doesn't slow her down in the slightest.

 

She doesn't stop running until she's several blocks down, where she climbs down from the roofs and in to an alleyway, letting herself breathe for a second. That's it, no doubt about it, she's heading home. 

 

She doesn't go to sleep for a while, the minutes playing over and over again in her head for far too long.

 

* * *

 

"You know, Vigilantism is illegal." He says the next time they meet, a whole week later. He doesn't do anything but say that, doesn't even move to stop her as she runs away.

 

She sees him again two days later, walking his dog. He waves to her as she stands over the unconscious body of an attempted mugger. "I'll deal with that for you." He says, as he approaches. "This is my dog, Lucky. You can pet him if you want." It's a very cute dog, but she doesn't approach him, only runs off again.

 

The third time they don't talk, but he punches a guy in the face. She stares at him for a few seconds before walking slowly away, and he does the same.

 

"You should really give me a name or something." He says the fourth time, as she pins a guy to a tree. He's surprisingly casual, considering. "Not even a real name, just a code name. Isn't that the thing with Vigilantes?" She hadn't actually ever considered a name, which makes her pause.

 

"Hawkeye." She tells him. It's a nickname she'd picked up in archery class, and the first thing to come to mind. The man stares at her, slack jawed.

 

"That is not fair." He says. "That is in no way fair at all. That is my name. Literally, my name. Choose another one. You don't even use weapons, for crying out loud, no one notices your name! You can't just steal mine."

 

She walks off that time, as he continues to rant. So he's Hawkeye, then. She doesn't actually know who that is, but she'll figure it out.

 

Fifth time, they don't talk.

 

SIxth time, she asks, "What's an Avenger doing fighting muggers?" It didn't take long to find out that Hawkeye + Bow and Arrows was a super hero. The Avengers didn't have great publicity, save for the obvious, but a quick and subtle inquiry on the Internet brought up the fact that there was an archer superhero.

 

"What are you doing fighting muggers?" He replies, obviously the epitome of wit, this Clint Barton guy. 

 

She never gives him a reply.

 

"I still have your bracelet." He says the some-teenth time they meet. "I really did just want to give it back to you, and you haven't replaced it. But you also haven't asked, so I wasn't sure how to proceed, you know?" She walks away faster that time. Why does he have to be nice?

 

Over their months of interaction, she stops running off when she sees him. She doesn't talk, much - have to keep up that mysterious persona, after all - but he does more than enough talking for the both of them. He calls her Hawkeye, even if he doesn't quite take it seriously. 

 

* * *

 

She doesn't actually plan the break in. But she gets in a fight with her father, for not the first time, but this time he catches her sneaking out. It was inevitable, maybe, but that doesn't change anything at all. She had a fight with her father, and aliens are invading Greenwich, but all that matters in the end is that she opens a window and slips in to a messy apartment in Bed-Stuy late in the afternoon.

 

The arrow flies through her shirt but not her skin as she is standing there rummaging through drawers, and it pins her to a wall that is notched with holes from other arrows fired. The duffel bag which holds her bow, arrows, and foils, as well as all of the clothing and money she could grab, tumbles out of her hand and on to the floor. Clint Barton stands in the doorway, staring at her.

 

Her hair is down and she didn't quite clean her face of make up, not to mention the change in lighting, but it still takes only moments for him to recognize her. "Shit." He mutters. "Hawkeye. What are you doing in my apartment?"

 

"Looking for my bracelet." She admits. "I thought you would be in Greenwich." 

 

"What's going on in Greenwich?" He asks, confused, and she stares at him. Sure, the Avengers have never been seen together, but she had thought an actual alien invasion would change that. 

 

"Aliens." She says, and that gets a look on his face. She reaches up and pulls the arrow out of her shirt gently, trying to keep too big a hole from forming and failing.

 

"Then I am staying as far away from Greenwich as I can." He says, setting his bow down. "You know, I offered to give you that bracelet about a hundred times. Why are you breaking in to get it?" 

 

"I'm leaving town." She says, and she supposes that she's leaving New York, then. Not like she had had much of a plan, before, and maybe it wasn't the best idea, but there was no way she was going back to her father. Not for a long, long time.

 

"You're leaving?" He questions. "Why? I mean, not to pry, but you've got a pretty sweet gig, and there's not much that makes someone leave a city quick, and I doubt you've gotten in trouble with the law." He pulls the bracelet out of his pocket.

 

"I got in a fight with my father." She says, and she's almost certain this is the most she's ever spoken with him.

 

"That's no reason to leave New York." Clint tells her. "It's a huge city, just tell him to stay out of your life and you should be fine. Besides, you shouldn't let your father be telling you where you can live or not."

 

"You don't understand." She snaps at him. "Just give me the bracelet so I can leave, okay?"

 

He stares for a few moments, and then mutters. "Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit." He slams his fist in to the wall, making a slight indent. "Why yes, Natasha, I do make wonderful choices. I don't know what you're talking about." He says in a mocking tone. "Hawkeye, how old are you?"

 

"Young enough that it'd be creepy, old man." She retorts, trying to keep some levity here and failing.

 

"This is the problem with hearing aids." He mutters. "I should have been able to tell. You're still a kid, aren't you? You're a teenager who got in to a fight with Dad and is running away from home, fuck me."

 

"You're gonna try and stop me?" She asks, reaching for the duffel bag, or more precisely the weapons inside of it. She likes Clint. She doesn't want to hurt Clint. But she's not headed back to her father. "You know, I may have called you an old man, but I didn't realize you needed hearing aids."

 

"I'm deaf." He says, staring at her, which makes her pause. "Look, I'm not going to stop you, but - do you have a plan?"

 

"No." She tells him. "But I'm good at this. I'll be fine."

 

"You're good at fighting." Clint corrects. "But, uh, I think I have a plan, if you want one."

 

* * *

 

They take trains out to the middle of nowhere, Iowa. All she has on her is the duffel bag, and all that he brings are the tickets and the dog. "Lucky shouldn't have been in New York to begin with." Clint tells her on the way over. "I love the damn dog, but I'm not around enough, and he deserves better than that cramped apartment of mine."

 

She's surprised people take her for his daughter. Yeah, the ages are about right, but she knows full well they don't look anything alike. She's, well, he looks like an all-american guy, and she's pretty distinctly not. 

 

There is a red headed woman waiting for them at the train station. She sticks out as much as they do, with her bright hair and her leather jacket. "When you said runaway kid, I thought you meant a younger version of you." She notes. "Not New York socialite Katherine Bishop."

 

"Your name's Katherine?" Clint asks, and the woman looks like she's about to punch him, or about to knock her head against a hard surface repeatedly. "It's a good name. You can get a lot of nicknames out of Katherine. Ain't that right, Katie-Kate?"

 

"You can hit him for that." The woman says. "Natasha. We need to get going. I'm not certain how long it will be before someone checks the field and finds the horses."

 

They walk down the road for a while before ducking in to a field of corn - an actual field of corn, which is just ridiculous - where there are horses waiting. Kate pushes herself and her duffel bag up on to one of the horses, which gives her the height to look over the corn over the vast nothingness of Iowa.

 

"Stay low." Clint says, so she lies down against the horse. "We're technically trespassing, and it's not unlikely one of the actual owners will shoot us."

 

"Plus, these horses are stolen. So there's that." Natasha adds. "Don't worry, little Hawk, it won't take that long to get to the safehouse."

 

It takes a good hour plus of walking. Or, well, riding, but same difference.

 

The safehouse was a farm, which wasn't exactly surprising given the miles of corn they had ridden through. At least this had gotten to where trees were still growing, providing actual cover against the sun and neighbors. The farm was - well, it wasn't in the best condition. It wasn't even in good condition. Yeah, it seemed safe to live in, but it wasn't exactly clean. In any way.

 

There were goats roaming the property, as well as chickens, as all of the fencing was broken and decrepit. Lucky ran forward, excited to see animals, and Clint raised his arms widely as if the place was something to be proud of.

 

"Welcome to your new home." Natasha tells her. "If anything in the world would drive you back to your family, this would be it."

 

She doesn't exactly doubt that.

 

* * *

 

"Why do you have an elephant?" She asks, as he walks down the small road that leads to the farm, leading the large animal by hand. 

 

"Why don't you have an elephant?" He retorts, with all the eloquence of a toddler.

 

"Apparently I do now." Kate says, as the elephant makes it's way towards the farm. He's brought her dogs and more goats and a cow, but this is the first elephant. "Where did you steal him from anyways?"

 

"Her. And I didn't steal her, I rescued her." Clint corrects. "She needs friends, you need friends, Natasha's being boring and doing Shield stuff with Steve, so I rescued an old friend of mine. We were in the circus together."

 

"You were in the circus?" Kate asks. "Well, that explains how you dress."

 

He'll bring her more dogs. He'll bring her some cats - though Liho comes with Natasha as well. Surrounded by animals and superhero secret agents who seem to accumulate petty crime charges like one accumulates random tiny cuts that don't bleed, just mark your skin until you find them days or weeks after the fact, sitting there, their cause unknown.

 

She gets better at fighting and better at archery. Mostly, she'll see Natasha or Clint do a move once, and then spend days figuring out how to best make that work for her - no copying - trying it over and over again. It isn't practice makes perfect, just practice makes.

 

* * *

 

The Avengers reform, and they start to do Press. She has been innately familiar with media for so long, but she has distanced herself in the - has it been years that she's lived on this farm? She can still find the notices. Derek Bishop searching for any information on the location of his daughter (does he write those himself, she wonders? are they that good press?)

 

Clint does an interview. It's obvious that he doesn't know what he's doing, but that doesn't matter, not really. Most of it's dull - the interviewer accuses him of being Hydra at one point, but other than that it's just standard fare.

 

Well, there's one bit.

 

The interviewer asks something like, why the bow and arrows - as if they aren't perfectly respectable weapons when you've got a guy unarmed save for a shield. Clint tosses over a bunch of reasons. "I've been using it since I was a kid." He says. "It's more fluid, more natural to me." He says. "It makes me distinctive from all the other guys with weapons." He says. "Besides, very few people can pick a bow up and just shoot it without practice, unlike a gun. No one alive uses a bow like me." He says. "Well, except Kate."

 

The interviewer was a jerk from the start - bad choice, Stark, or whoever chose him - but he hadn't gotten actually aggressive when that had come up, so he asks, "Who's Kate? Someone special, perhaps?" The ways his eyes look make her gag, lying on the couch with the dogs.

 

"Oh, she's special alright." Clint says with a laugh. "I guess you could say she's my protege."

 

Protege. Not friend, not ward, not girl who lives in my house and looks after my dogs, not teen vigilante or superhero wannabe. Protege. 

 

"I don't know what he's talking about, Lucky." She whispers to the dog on the floor next to her. "I'm nobody's protege. To suggest I'm a protege would mean that I'm not already perfect, which is a god damned lie." The dog smiles back, unknowing, perfectly loyal to her and not to Clint.

 

Still, inside her chest, she smiles.

 

Protege, huh?

**Author's Note:**

> kate kate katie kate katie kate kate
> 
> anyone know who the mystery guest character is? hints are available upon request. the winner receives nothing but satisfaction, but that's better than nothing, i suppose. idk. are people even reading these? do i care?
> 
> next one up is entitled "a flash of crimson red" for anyone who hasn't read the series notes. again, betting is on, but i think the title might be a tad bit obvious? idk


End file.
